Lavender and Sandalwood: A Chelsie Drabble Collection
by mrpoohnminnie
Summary: An assorted collection of Chelsie ficlets and drabbles. Some of these may morph into longer stories. But until I have the time to write those multichapter fics, I figured I would share what I have so far. Each post will include a timing note and a spoiler warning (if needed).
1. Work-Life Balance

I'm not able to complete unfinished or write new multichapter fics at the moment (Boo, RL!).

However, there are Chelsie thoughts that build up and have to get out. Please consider this an area where sometimes related, sometimes not-related Chelsie ficlets and drabbles will be posted. I'll try to prompt for S6 spoilers, and timing as I can.

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Ficlet: Work-Life Balance

Timing note: mid-S6 or beyond (which is as certain as my married-Chelsie predictions can be). I just wrote this, so excuse any errors (or alert me if they're rather glaring). Thanks X

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They were ensconced in their shared quarters after another long day of serving the Granthams. Their bedroom was small but cozy, which is where Elsie Carson could be found lounging in their bed. Her back was against her propped-up pillow as she attempted to re-read a novel with as neutral as a facade as she could muster. Before her, Charles Carson wore the carpet with his bare feet. He had swapped his livery for his night clothes. And he passed back and forth from his chest of drawers and their en-suite in between brushing his teeth and removing the brilliantine from his greying hair.

An avid reader, she could speedily work her way through a book without losing sight on the fine prose, the subtle plot developments. But that was before she married Charles Carson. Instead, she hid behind her raised book, however slightly, as the nightly show of the hithering and thithering amused her to distraction from her book.

But the show had finally ceased for the evening. He trekked once more to the bathroom to fill his requisite glass of water he secured each night on his bedside table. And so Elsie Carson returned her focus to the novel safely in her small but capable hands.

A shy smile signaled her anticipation of what had become her favorite part of the day. The evening had long since been that time, but the particular moment to come quickly became the apex of it all. But she still kept to the prose upon the thick page her fingers traced before turning it.

A shadow soon grew upon the parchment and the bed dipped to her left under the weight of her husband. Elsie Carson did nothing to hide her growing smile even as she squinted to make out the words on the page. Every day it was a moment of spellbinding clarity - rivaling how her ring caught the brilliance of a ray of sun peeking out from the clouds - that they were finally wed.

And then her husband spoke, reminding her that they were still the same people, that they were individuals with separate but related responsibilities. Or, so she thought.

"Did Miss Baxter inform you that her ladyship is expecting Lady Malcolm for tea tomorrow?"

"She did. Though, Mrs. Patmore had already gone upstairs when I learned of it. I'll let her know tomorrow morning."

The bed rolled a bit as her husband got comfortable. She could see in the periphery that he didn't retrieve his own half-read novel.

"Isn't she visiting her cottage tomorrow to check on the renovations?"

She sighed at that, looking up to glance unfocused at her dresser across the room.

"Then, I'll let Daisy know of her ladyship's plans."

She returned her focus to the book, but it was hard to ignore the bulk of a man beside her.

"I wonder about her, Mrs. Patmore. Those tradesmen might not pay her any mind at all when it comes to doing good work."

She smiled at his concerns but doubted his conclusions. Another page was turned.

"I think Mrs. Patmore is uniquely qualified to not let anyone, let alone a tradesman, march over her. I shudder to think what happened the last time the grocer delivered the wrong order and then insisted she shouldn't be so choosy."

She could hear as much as feel his low chuckle directed her way. She grew intrigued when the melodious sound cut off abruptly.

But she needn't have said a word nor glanced in his direction, for her husband had become quite fixated - on her.

The sound of her quick inhale was loud in their quiet room. But she savored its stillness, for she could feel and see and hear her husband's prominent nose gently nudging the curve of her shoulder. His breath steadily warmed the chilled skin left exposed by her sleeveless nightgown.

His lips were moistened by his requisite bedside water, bless it, and she quickly forgot the novel she held in her hands. It closed with a muted thud as his lips began a slow, languid trail towards the base of her neck.

Every thought fell away, leaving her only the feelings that pleasure brought. That is, until he spoke again.

Muffled, rumbling, vibrating within her, she heard him remark, "Perhaps you're right. But I would confirm with her ladyship tomorrow after breakfast."

Her only reply was a sighing hum. Her chin tilted upwards, arrested only by the top of the headboard behind her. And still, his progress - of warm breaths, and soft lips - never wavered.

And now his hands began to follow his lips, only to find more exposed skin to skate across with a light but evocative touch down to her delicate wrists.

"A wine delivery should be due after luncheon tomorrow, as well. Please send Andrew for me if I'm still upstairs?"

She breathed heavily, but he could not discern if it was any kind of response to his request. His growing, cheshire smile was hidden in the crook of her neck. And so he sought once more to confirm her understanding.

His nose grazed along the graceful lines of her neck until he finally arrived at her ear. Before nipping slightly at her ear, he asked in a whisper, "Will you, darling?"

She pulled back swiftly - not by the painful pleasure, but by a realization that finally dawned.

"How can you do that," she insisted with widened eyes.

"How can I do what?" His confusion appeared to be genuine, but the tips of his ears were red, as was his neck.

"How can you do _that_ ," she pressed while staring at his lips and waving her hand in the air between them, "and talk about the house as if _nothing_ else was going on?"

For a split second he thought she was furious, and life seemed to be fleeting for a moment. But there was an awestruck look in her eyes and he ventured forward with a slightly defiant tone.

"Are you telling me you cannot?"

Her head tilted slightly away, in disbelief at the mischievous light beginning to glow in his eyes.

"If that's how you intend to make requests of my assistance with your wine shipments, then you should not expect any reliable assistance in the future."

He set his sails in their freeing, breezy exchange.

"Is this your way of telling me that now we're married, I can't be sure of your support?"

As her eyes darted away while her tongue darted to her lips, he waited for her retort.

"Butlers marrying housekeepers - did you not think the whole household would do anything but descend into untenable chaos?"

Her words mocked him, but her darkened eyes told him the real story.

"It's a chance I'm willing to take," he declared as his concentration refocused on her parted lips.

She could not argue with his logic, as it was one more chance that brought mischief and magic to their shared life.

Later, their bedclothes were dislodged and pleasant exhaustion was about to give way to slumber.

She could feel the strength of his hand weaken as sleep began to overcome him. But, it clenched once more with feeling when he heard her whisper in the darkness.

"Lady Malcolm favors lemon. I'll have Daisy think up a new treat for her. You can be her taster."

The only response she received was a sigh and a warm hand gently squeezing the bare curve of her shoulder. She smiled into her pillow before her eyelids blissfully shuttered closed for the night.

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I'd love to know your thoughts! Please share if you have the time. Cheers!


	2. Palestine

Ficlet: Palestine

Timing note: between S4 and S5, less than a few weeks after Brighton.

Title note: A very short atmospheric piece (played on repeat) was the inspiration for the mood that I hope is conveyed here. The piece, of course, is "Palestine," by The American Dollar. It's easily found on YouTube if you'd like to hear it.

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There was something about the air that night – a stillness to it belying the atmosphere building inside Charles Carson. No one had noticed it, fortunately. He didn't want it noticed – wanted it locked away, hidden, not _felt_ to so that there was no need to notice. And then he grimaced, as that small victory of unnoticed tension came with a price.

Earlier, plates had been cleared with vigor, even while he remained taciturn – respectful but not curmudgeonly. Perhaps he should have been proud of that achievement even as he overcame the unease of feeling full, unmoved to eat normally as a growing sense of emptiness steadily overcame him.

All the chairs were occupied about the smaller table, a minor positive contrast as he recalled the spartan sight that greeted him every meal at Downton nowadays. Yet, the table was empty to him. It had felt empty for the past week. His evenings were empty despite the paperwork, the ledgers needing filling. The office across the hall had felt empty despite Mrs. Bute returning to occupy it once more.

Everything was hollow, unfulfilling. And that aching feeling, feeding off of nothingness had become the sign of his discontent. His barometer was dropping, plummeting as low as his voice after a chilly night's rest.

But the air on that particular night was steeped in warmth. Even as a brace fell from his wide shoulders, he could feel a slight release from the humid heat that had encased him all evening as he attended to the family.

His ablutions were done with greater care that night. A languid weight informed every familiar movement, letting the sounds of the fabrics shed from his body reverberate ever longer in his small room. The effect was unnerving to his ears, yet he was unmoved to hasten his progress towards the time for sleeping. It was something unlikely to occur for at least another hour, for he was agitated by his mind - waking and especially sleeping.

And so he stood there, at the foot of his bed, looking at the slim frame of it, grimacing yet unfocused on the sturdy but slightly worn sheets that adorned it. Truth be told, he was caught in a losing battle - a battle waged by a stubborn determination to avoid thinking about the reason for his troubles.

The Downton staff needed for Lady Rose's ball had returned to Yorkshire a week ago. In their absence, the Season continued - fetes, late nights followed by the family eating out, partying until odd hours. Relying on years of training, he was forced to wait it out until the family saw fit to return home.

It short, it was tedious.

Shifting on his feet, his brow knitted as his lips pursed with disapproval.

A flash of sounds and lights - an ancient memory resurfaced, leading him back to when he last felt those treacherous thoughts with equal acuity. He had been a lad about to run away from it all, to lose himself in London only to emerge as an unsteady, cheerful Charlie. The tediousness had turned into a feeling of security that only serving a great house could provide.

But now the great trappings of the house - his life of managed chaos - were no longer his security in a changing world.

Instead, a single hand had pitched his very axis, oriented the poles to the direction of wherever the hand and its owner rested.

Only, Charles Carson didn't understand that, at least not yet.

And now that hand was apart from him, but it made its presence known with every letter it wrote addressed to him at Grantham House. Small details - important details - of their working lives were sketched out with those nimble, strong fingers. Each missive seemed to draw out his unease without his knowledge or consent.

But there was a single paragraph that stood out amongst all the others that encouraged his melancholy, that gnawing emptiness, into a tail spin.

 _It will soon be a relief to have our family huddled together again at Downton. The only agreeable alternative is to take up permanent residence by the sea and walk its shores (barefoot, of course) to replace our daily rounds. It's a silly, little dream, Mr. Carson, but I beg indulgence and will otherwise blame yet another risque remark on the heat settling over our village since my return. I wait daily for the cleansing rain, but it never seems to arrive. Perhaps you will bring it with you upon your return._

There was a passive, hidden longing there that his heart unconsciously ferreted out a few nights ago. His sleep had been fleeting or treacherous - nothing in between - ever since.

The beginning of a growl ghosted across his lips, and soon he made his way to the men's washroom.

Grateful to find it empty, he sought its respite, lighting a single lamp inside the darkened space after locking himself inside.

While he couldn't summon a cleansing rain, he could summon the tap works to drown out his thoughts for a moment. Splashing water on his face with vigor, the water rushed into the drain, gurgling on its way down. Soon, he took to removing the brilliantine from his hair, allowing it to become as unruly as his thoughts before hastily turning off the tap and drying himself.

Only his haste let steady droplets fall as relentless reminders of time, hitting the porcelain in a bittersweet reminder. Each drop was a sand in the hourglass, perturbing him with thoughts he could neither voice nor deny.

He was grateful to be alive, but no longer contented. He was a seasoned butler yet still a young lad at heart.

Slackjawed for a moment, he stared down his reflection - searching the lateral wrinkle etched in his forehead, finding desperation in the eyes that stared back at him. And still the drops of water fell slowly, mockingly. Water beaded on his left ear, dripping on to his nightshirt, and it stung him in reminder. Time had passed, but time was still ticking.

And he didn't have to be stuck in reverse.

And yet…

Hastily twisting the faucet handle, the drip, drip, drip ceased. What remained was his haggard inhale, released slowly, methodically, clearing his head and his stricken heart.

The stitches had begun to heal. But the pangs of emptiness that plagued him unconsciously signaled his mental unease with testing his heart once more. Little did he know, he had no say in the matter.

In spite of the tediousness, the Season would soon end. He would soon return home to Downton.

And still the emptiness would be there.

It would linger in those early days until he began to tentatively test his heart. It would recede only when he made a hesitant start to speak the words that had threatened to tumble from his mouth in weaker moments (of the future, thoughts revealing his flirtatious nature, of his desperate need to be right but be _right with her_ ).

And his heart would begin to grow with strength when he could look at the woman that guided him with her delicate hand and know she was the reason for it all - the pleasure and the pain.

But she would be there - to notice, to feel as he did the hope and heartache of testing his heart. And she would cradle it unknowingly even while making it beat wildly, would protect it while breaking into a million pieces over a property venture gone awry. But she would be there.

And that would make all the difference.

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A/N This is actually what I was trying to write while Work-Life Balance barged in and completely took over my thoughts. I hope this wasn't too in the weeds. I'd like to know your thoughts and hope to get back to each and every one of you that I can soon.

Cheers!


	3. Quite Well

Timing Note: speculated Late S6. There are photos out there of the gang filming in Bampton on June 29-30th. That's all I'll say. We don't know what really is happening, but this is one take on it.

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The roles of their lives had expanded as of late. From butler to chairman, Charles Carson made the great leap to betrothed and husband. And now he relished not being in the limelight in their village church. True, the last, memorable church affair ushered in his greatest role, bringing him the most profound joy he could ever acquire in this lifetime. But now he could simply observe the scene. Now he could focus on his heart filling with that familiar feeling of contentment, his blood pulsing through his veins because of the woman sat close to him in their pew.

All thoughts of flower arrangements, of ushering people into the church, of not weeping at the sight of his betrothed receded as the pews began to fill for this happy occasion. It was a love match they were about to observe, memorialized with words of promise, of devotion, of gravity and weight that kept whomever said them grounded as their souls took flight. He didn't know that was the reason, not until he said the words himself.

 _He had stood there, his hands surrounding hers with the greatest of reverence for the strength that flowed within them, the mischief and vitality they brought to his life. And his own hands begin to ease their trembling when he looked deeply into her eyes, imploring her to believe the conviction behind every syllable he uttered that shining day. Even before she repeated the words, rolled her tongue around his name with fathomless deference, her eyes had told him she believed him, found joy in his words and sentiments._

 _Spring had been burgeoning outside the church doors. But her love had bloomed before him, hot tears springing in her eyes – highlighting their Brighton sea and bluebell hues. Though tears did not spring forth, they only served to punctuate her vigor and wholehearted acceptance. And he was almost unable to fight off the inexplicable need to reciprocate even as that stinging feeling made his chin drop in the hopes of marshaling his reserve._

 _And just as she had reached for him on Christmas Eve – guided by the need to soothe, to unburden, and convey – she had reached for his forearm before the crowded church. And at once he was steadied under the minute sweep of her fingers and palm, unable to keep his head from shaking in quiet wonder._

 _He wasn't aware of anything but her. He had missed the knowing glances their acquaintances had made at the sight of such wordless, profound communication of one soul to another. He wasn't aware of the sniffling, the intakes of breaths, and murmuring at their quiet display of their love match. All he knew were the final steps needed to assume his greatest role. And with her hand in his, he took it._

As the church continued to fill with onlookers, Elsie Carson had observed him for some time. And as his eyes clouded while a smile peeked out from his bent head, she had to ask in a whispering, soothing voice, "Are you quite well, Mr. Carson?"

His smile grew, imperceptible to everyone but her. A wave of tranquility took over his countenance before he straightened to his regal bearing, looking straight towards the front of the church where Mr. Travis stood patiently.

Before he could begin to answer, the organ had begun to play.

And amidst the crowd awakening, the scraping of the pews on stone as the observers rose to their feet, he found her hand and squeezed it gently. And as the bride walked past them at a stately pace, Elsie Carson turned back to him, much as she'd done with every wedding they observed together. And in that moment, she squeezed his hand as both pairs of eyes welled with tears in aching, pleasant familiarity.

Neither said it, but both were quite well. Quite well, indeed.

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As always, reviews are craved and valued. Happy Tuesday to you all!


	4. And So it Begins

Timing Note: just moments after the proposal.

A/N: This is a ficlet written over my lunch (just now). So, excuse the typos!

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They sipped sparingly of their punch, and he took some pleasure in his toast to " _our_ new house."

He had as much courage in her wordless approval and hand clutching his forearm as he did in their libations. Soon, he turned to secure their cups behind him on his side table.

He didn't know that she would look more breathtaking when he turned back to her.

Disbelief was the word that came to mind.

She had angled away slightly, her head inclined toward his hearth and her chair. It was always her chair, somehow migrated to his pantry from her sitting room in the past year. She held court there in the winter months, mending things and interweaving herself into his world.

 _On a chilly night almost a year before, he remembered chuckling to himself as he read and she fixed a button on his evening livery. She had spied his unease as he walked through her doorway that evening, insisting on fixing it right then and there. A compromise was struck when she shooed him back into his office, following him in short order._

 _He should have felt uncomfortable sitting in his reading chair without his tails. But these were not professionals of a household going over the day and planning for the next dinner party. These were two souls sharing a warm hearth and their hearts in the process._

 _His mirth had cut through the easy silence. Slowing briefly with her work, she raised her eyes as he sat entranced by the novel she recently finished herself. He didn't see her gaze soften before hiding her regard behind an unneeded yet somehow necessary deflection. He quit reading the moment she goaded him to share whatever ever it was that struck him._

" _It's not humorous," he admitted._

" _Then what is it?"_

 _At once, he knew her interest was sincere despite her delivery. She appreciated literature as much or even more than he. In fact, he knew she had read this very book, which he failed to ignore as he fingered the spine of it each night before turning in._

" _A striking turn of phrase."_

 _Their eyes locked for a moment. She said not a word, but he soon acquiesced at her look of entreaty. Her hands stilled then, becoming his audience of one while he cleared his throat. She looked at him, not with a sidelong sweep or a guarded glance. She took full advantage of the rare opportunity to regard him openly without fear of being caught._

 _But despite being entranced at his concentrated expression, his lips that formed the intoned passage, she too was struck by the words he recited. It was an interlude that had remained with her after reading the same novel weeks before._

 _Entranced by the words and the voice that delivered them, her eyes drifted off to her right, back to the hearth in an unfocused gaze. She was transported back to that literary haven to the point that she was unaware that he had completed the passage and the remaining chapter._

 _He was able to watch her, unguarded, alight with a knowing smile, but for a moment. The surge within him, the rush of awareness that he desperately wanted to share their lives together in this manner, was something he could not control._

 _The quiet moment was to be treasured. Yet he had to ask. "Was it striking?"_

 _He almost hoped she hadn't heard him to allow his unobserved study of her profile to continued unabated. To his delight, her response was almost absentminded as she remained focused on the hearth. "Hmm? Oh, yes - lovely."_

 _But she wasn't absentminded. Her face bloomed just enough to convey the truth, her expression faintly sweet but wholeheartedly genuine._

" _Yes," he agreed, surveying her face unabated. He hadn't expected to say it. But he felt compelled to speak what he had long since observed, "Lovely."_

 _She had turned to regard him, eventually, and was surprised to find his gaze upon her. And in that moment, something innocent yet significant felt exposed to the growing warmth of the evening._

 _But the moment had turned when her gaze drifted to the hearth once more. And he wondered if the moment actually transpired outside of his overactive mind. Yet it would remain with him on cold and sleepless nights as he thought of the house he hoped for them to call their own home. It spurred him to cease hiding behind talk of business ventures to finally say what his heart had long since felt._

And now, over a year later, her gaze was affixed to that heated hearth. But now they weren't separated by their carefully constructed barriers, by the space between, by fear.

His courage made him softly press his hand into hers, hung uncharacteristically by her side. She finally regarded him, and his heart clenched as he concluded she was more lovely than she was almost a year ago.

That familiar surge had returned at the vision of her trusting and abiding regard. He felt it then as he felt it now.

And without further preamble, he kissed her.

Despite his initial haste, it was an act inherently reverential. It could be nothing else as his large, bowing frame and gentle approach of his outstretched, tilted head aligned with his betrothed.

The only sound in that moment was her sharp intake of breath. His scent - of sandalwood and pomade - of something distinctly Charles Carson - was filling her senses to the point of disbelief. But his approach, of speed and stealth, lingered sweetly for a few moments before he reluctantly pulled back slightly.

To his disbelief, her expression was as dazed as his fumbling proposal first began.

Their gazes remained locked. And with a blink, they confessed their love with a mere glance.

She looked as if she hadn't taken a breath since he stole it from her with his kiss.

"Are you alright," he asked as breathlessly as he managed the words that changed the very air around them.

Blinking, she withdrew from the haze as his warm hand released hers. Finally, she managed with a ghost of a smile, "I'm wondering if I'm still in a dream, honestly."

He swallowed at that, wondering about those dreams that fueled her to think he'd never get to this very moment.

"Since no one has managed to interrupt us yet, I think your wondering is warranted."

They both chuckled breathlessly, unable to say what they felt. But words mattered little now as they stood, teeming with utter vitality at the realization they both knew exactly what the other was thinking and had the courage to finally do something about it.

"So you want a footman to stumble down here in search of more wine," she concluded glibly.

"If only to assure you that we're not in a dream, that you most certainly have made me a very happy man, I…"

He trailed off then, having grown distracted at the way her lips parted and tears began to pool in her eyes.

He was helpless, feeling the keen pull of their obligations upstairs even as he wanted to stay within this haven with her - forever. In the back of his mind, an accusatory voice called out, _And so it begins_.

But she felt the pull, as well, and it brought her back from the depths.

"Well, this will never do," she castigated with a look of pure tenderness.

She shook her head in amused wonder. Somehow this man managed to surprise her yet again. She had compiled a long list of assumptions when it came to Charles Carson if only to steel herself against the impossibility of having her feelings of deep, abiding love returned. But that list would need to have items crossed off it after this evening transformed the impossibility to a present and lasting reality.

But he did not know these thoughts, not yet. She would tell him once they were married, when they could close and lock a door and huddle together without worry of interruption.

Now, his brows were rooted in concern at her words, not unlike his expression he held as he endured her teasing moments before. His life had been precarious, standing there with a piece of crystal that threatened to fall to the floor in a thousand pieces. And in that moment of waiting, his knitted brows were a perilous precipice off which his very mind would have careened had she denied him.

But she had only denied him an immediate response, which only punctuated her confession that she had waited for this moment, knew her answer the moment he risked everything with his desperate request.

She breezed past him then, heading for the door closest to the stairwell.

"Come on," she challenged in an octave he'd rarely heard.

She had returned, yet was different. And it was exactly as it should be. He made her feel that way - the confidence and the love - yes, love, as their match was to be. And his pride was evident as he strode the few steps to join her at the still closed door from which they entered.

He could not hide his amusement as he asked, "I dare ye?"

She didn't say a word, but found his hand and squeezed reassuringly before exiting.

They faced the stairs together, halting briefly. Unknowingly in tandem, they took a cleansing breath simultaneously. They turned inward, as they did for decades of stealing glances. Each regarding the other half of their soul, a dignified sense of peace pervaded.

They mounted the steps, one by one, side by side. Another voice in his head - his own that motivated him to arrive at this blissful state - called out with supreme gratification, _And so it begins._

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All: Thank you so much for your kind responses to previous chapters.

I'm on a tumblr/FFN mini-hiatus while I tackle my work project this month. I hope to get back to you all eventually for previous responses and any you may leave for this chapter. Know that your words are welcomed and treasured - now, and especially as I'm doing this major work project.

Cheers!


	5. The Papered Wall

Many of you have read this already on Tumblr. Thank you soooo much for doing so. I just wanted to permanently archive it here.

Setting: S6. No spoilers (other than the colors mentioned).

* * *

Beyond the threshold of their bedroom, along the wall that separates it from their washroom (theirs like everything in their cottage), she is blessedly pinned by her brand new husband.

Her head rests against the papered wall, her auburn locks blending with the pattern as wedding-clobbered bodies of grey on gray writhe against each other.

Gasping for air, laughing, giddy with desire - his and hers. His wherewithal is abandoned as the sun begins to crest on this day, their wedding day. He had promised, promised ardently, solemnly, to be gentle, to be slow, to take as much time as she needs.

And like his proposal, he is unaware of his impetuousness. He is only conscious of the soft flesh the neck of her dress had exposed to him all day. And it feels and tastes of something from another world.

And she feeds off his impatient patience as she did in his pantry all those weeks ago as he stood with his offered heart in his hands.

Well, he'd asked her then.

Well, indeed.

In their heedless pleasure, she puts the heel of her left hand against the juncture of his broad shoulder and arm. It arrests him, only just.

He is confused (that she'd seen) and… aroused (and never like this, in their weeks of incremental intimacies, had she ever seen him). And he takes her in, just a breath away.

Her voice is something he's never heard before. "There's time, my love. Take your time."

And he remembers himself, putting words to his urgency. "But I've wasted so much time not showing you my regard."

And she stops him then, brings his face to level with hers."You're not the only one to blame, my love."

His mouth opens, a strangled reply hangs in his throat. "We're here now," she implores, the low vowels she utters with such sublimeness that they are just that. "That's all that matters."

Eyes level in that bewitching hour of the waning sun-blue to hazel and back again.

And it's all they need to express before beginning again. There is no desperation. There is no haste. It is only their pace, and theirs alone.


	6. More Than She Bargained For

Timing: S6, probably episode 2. Why am I so specific despite S6 having not yet started? The press day had OODLES of spoilers and speculations off which to go. You have been forewarned about my potentially very inaccurate speculations in this here drabble.

A/N: This is another airport drabble (albeit typed up). The traveling is almost all done for a while. Forgive the typos.

* * *

The moment he shut the door to her sitting room, he regretted it. Their customary nightcap was nowhere to be seen. Her paperwork was uncommonly tidy on her desk. She had stewed, that much he could see.

There she stood, her foot practically tapping the stone floor. But that wasn't the worst part. Her hands were on her hips and he grew distracted and distressed at the sight.

"You're upset with me," he stated the obvious.

Her tone was clipped, and he braced himself against her cool demeanor. "You could say that, yes."

Yet another day brought another delay, another complication to the very simple yet profound act of two devoted individuals marrying each other. Today was no different than all the others, but a particularly outrageous request from Lady Mary had pushed Mrs. Hughes over the edge that afternoon. After all, her fiancé had seen no trouble with it. But, to Mrs. Hughes, it felt like she was a mere stranger to her own nuptials. It did not sit well, as Mr. Carson had learned quite unfortunately that evening before the family was served their meal.

They stood uncomfortably in her sitting room as the clock ticked onwards.

Mr. Carson's left arm swung worriedly by his side. He looked downwards, his eyes peeking out under his furrowed brow. "This cannot be fixed tonight, despite how much I want to make amends."

He had realized how overbearing the request must have sounded to Mrs. Hughes. He was—slowly but surely—understanding that where he might find no issue with something she would, and for good reason. As much as they were partners before their understanding, days like this felt as if they were still learning how to be around one another. It was as if they returned to the early days of Mrs. Hughes taking over the reins as housekeeper.

"But we can't," she concluded, sounding as weary as he looked.

She was tired, but she could not deny him even before he vowed a single wish.

His left hand hung suspend in the air, punctuating his words. "Don't forget," he started as his hand and head bowed to his feet to gather himself. Remembering the grate on the wall, the impetuous Mrs. Patmore, and the rest of the well-meaning but overly curious onlookers, he near-whispered. "Don't forget that I love you." He looked her plainly in the eye as he concluded, "More than I can say."

She swallowed as tears threatened—the now familiar swelling of emotion doing a number to her insides. And despite its familiarity, she still didn't know what to do with it all. For this is what she longed for the openness, the transparent intimacy. And yet his willingness to express his feelings, in word and deed, was far more than she bargained for.

But still, she ventured closer to her betrothed.

"I've been a bit crabby, I'll concede," she started softly.

"We both have had good reason to be," he concluded with a glance to the ceiling. It took her a moment to savor and empathize that he finally felt that their upstairs family was asking and prodding too much. This was their nuptials, not belonging to anyone else.

In the end, her empathy outweighed her frustration. Their love outweighed all those maddening details as she confessed with a watery smile, "But as for forgetting—it is the first and last thing I think of each day." His right cheek rose unbidden as she turned steadfastly serious. "Don't ever doubt that."

Despite her conviction, and the way she made him want to weep with joy, he had to ask, "And, are you still… happy?" He had upset her so, in these past few weeks, had vexed her with his frightened approach to any discussion of marital intimacy. He wondered how many more obstacles they could and would face.

With a deep inhale, she rose to her tiptoes and he automatically bowed to her. Like always, now (he thrilled at this shred of intimacy despite being terrified to venture too much further), she found purchase on his right bicep. But now her right hand softly rested on his stubbled cheek, and he thought he would faint at the precious weight and warmth of it.

Her breath began to ghost across his other cheek, making him shiver all the way down his formidable frame. "Happier than I could possibly say," she confessed before adding, not superfluously, "my love."

He quickly inhaled, intoxicated by her words, her scent, her everything. And soon he found his nose nestled in her soft hair. His right hand, long since wavering at her side, dared to rest gently along her waist. He had begun to relish his knowledge in and curse the very presence of the threads that made her Elsie Hughes, housekeeper. Now that he was free to wonder, to anticipate a life of marital intimacy, his thoughts had turned more specific, more ardent. But for now, he kept to her–a beachhead in the raging sea in which they found themselves.

He kissed her temple then, and a tremor ran through her—a pang of pleasure and pain as her check brushed against his stubbled cheek. And she wondered with alarm if something was that matter with her, with the mixture of emotions coursing through her.

But that compared little to the moment her eyes fluttered shut. A vision flashed—of them, together. Of a ceiling looming above her, _him_ hovering over her, his face buried in her neck saying grunting his pleasure amongst whispered adorations and her own gasps of pleasure.

With a start, she pulled away—stunned.

"I best be off," she whispered, nearly overpowered by the inviting clouds of darkness forming in his eyes.

He found her right hand then, confused but damned if he was not going to express himself. After a most awkward discussion about the exact nature of their future marital life, he was determined to let her know how very much he desired her. But he would remain within the bounds of propriety until their wedding day.

He kissed her palm—once, twice—before letting it rest above his rapidly-beating heart.

Yet, despite her spirit, her exasperation with not a smidgen of affection prior to their enlightening conversation on their anticipated wedded bliss, she was not entirely prepared for that future. Feeling what she did to him through his livery and starched shirt was a revelation, one she could not fully process when they were still hidden behind her closed door.

"Goodnight, my love," he rumbled, and it was her near undoing.

"Goodnight," she whispered.

And she was off—a flash of black and auburn that did not stop until she opened her bedroom window to cool her flushed cheeks.

Her anticipation and trepidation for their shared future kept Elsie Hughes up late that night. But they would get there in the end—a stasis of passion and joy, of trust and that unmistakable but intangible state of being: home, home with and in him.

* * *

Thank you all for reading - I hope to get back to reading more of the Chelsie goodness out there and reviewing, as well. Cheers to you all!


	7. Filling the Cracks of Canon: The Beach

Timing: S4 - before and after the beach scene.

* * *

Arriving at the tail end of the morning, their downstairs brood scattered like petals in the wind. They assisted Mrs. Patmore in setting up their own beachhead before he walked alone for a time at the near end of the beach. He might as well be in London at that distance. But still, he took in the high tide, heard the wallop of water against the mostly unyielding rocks. The crash, the inexorable, uneven tempo of the water was inescapable.

Mrs. Hughes stared it down, boldly, and on her own as she walked closer, alone, to the waiting ocean.

Separately, the sights and sounds and smells flooded them both – this awesome force of nature. Separately, they felt it wash away the city grime. They felt it strip away their duties.

Later that day, when he will eventually return to their beach head, they both will see the force eradicate the line drawn between them when he first observes her bare feet.

And still he will keep to the space between the residue of responsibility even as he cannot escape the sand. But she will feel the winds of freedom, of the fearsome courage one needs to face an ocean and be transformed by it. She will be fortified by it – emboldened by it.

And he will feel exposed as he removes his socks and shoes, finds himself rolling his woolen trousers and soon barefoot in the sand, walking, with her.

And he'll curse her then, silently, the heated grains bathing his feet in a dry, hot bath as they walk on. He'll grit his teeth for a time, regretting that he kept to the drier earth as they walked along the natural, meandering line between dry and damp sand.

* * *

"Why don't you cool off a bit," she asked, noticing his discomfort. "Just a toe in will make all the difference," she entreated as though her request was merely one she would make on any other day.

"All my toes safely in my socks and shoes would be much preferred, if you must know." And, despite his discomfort, he was dismayed by his gruffness. _This isn't how this was supposed to go_ , whatever this was.

"Well, you can't do that now. Otherwise your staff will see your grimace and lose all hope of having fun."

Of course she would remember his viewpoint on the fair, all those years before when times were simpler, where all that awaited them was a son and heir to the main chance, not a sudden, tragic death.

Still, he insisted, " _Our_ staff will pay no mind."

She was dismissive in her way. "So you say."

He could not hide his growling groan. She walked on as he halted, his jaw set as he stared down the ocean. And she paddled into the sea, her skirt rising just so in his peripheral vision. It was a vision he could not ignore.

But it did spur him, for he didn't want to linger (too long) on her bare ankles now exposed to the world. They were lovely, just like the rest of her.

And still the feelings built and he was desperate to shift gears. His only option, he realized in a panic, was the waiting sea. In a moment, he propelled his heated feet directly into the path of a timid remnant of a wave. And that's all he needed to sigh in pleasure, his defenses almost completely washed away as the water lapped at his feet.

She was curious as she regarded him then, thinking he was capable of anything at this point – the challenging gauntlet laid and his immediate response. She was, of course, completely unaware that the subtle rising of her skirts compelled him to move forward.

Yet there they were, on the cusp of a dare that would change everything.

And so, they began with a dare.

* * *

 _Later – wading in the sea._

Even in the midst of the cool, calm sea, she took in his profile, gauging his mood as they waded through uncharted territory. The act had already gifted her a glimpse at Charles Carson as a boy, with his downturned, gleeful look at their feet propelling slowly but surely forward.

They had come to a natural stop, standing, basking in the way that every sense was enlivened in the moment. She ventured another glance.

And she found his eyes closed and his jaw set firmly. But he wasn't angry – far from it. She could feel it in his hand even before his head slowly bowed in concentration.

He was giving thanks.

And at this marvel, this blessed, intimate gift entrusted to her of a man praying before his God, she bowed her head with a heart full of love for every moment she shared with this man clasped to her. They may not know what they are, how they figure in their lives. But whatever it was, it was savored. And most importantly, it was recognized by them and before God.

The red behind his tightly closed eyes colored his fervent prayer. And his thoughts grew more intense – for the moment, for the woman beside him, keeping fast to his side. She could feel his connection as his hand increased the force of his grasp involuntarily. Hers squeezed subtly in response even as she kept to her prayer of thanksgiving.

With a mouthed 'Amen,' his vision was bathed in white as his bowed head leveled out. His eyes soon opened, finding comfort in the haze of the horizon before them.

He ventured a glance at her then, bewitched by her bliss, the slope of her incomparable nose. Gulping before flooding his lungs with the sea air, he was fully renewed – from what he could not fully gather.

Eventually, she rejoined him, imbued with a sense of oneness – with this man, with her God, with the very world around them.

And yet, they never spoke of the moment – of them alone with God. They didn't need to.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	8. The Coldest Summer

A/N: Set during the S5 Christmas Special during the tour of the house in Helmsley.

* * *

He peeks outside to the gutters, then. And he misses another cold wave of malaise that creeps further under her breastbone. It's getting too difficult to hide it as the day presses on.

They are on the third of four houses, far away from the Abbey and where they know how to interact with each other. And yet, even far away from it, a lifetime away from their duties, they still know how to just be. Even with her growing sense of unease, there is no rush to fill the silence with mindless prattle.

And when they do speak, it is often the same thought the other had conjured – about a new sink, the way a rug would rest between a settee and chairs before a well-scrubbed hearth. They smile shyly at each other then, falling a little bit more in love. They look away and are completely unaware of how one's countenance craters slightly while the other's blooms increasingly. One woman's pain is her man's pleasure, however innocently so.

She knows what comes next by now. He will talk of the garden hedges, the way they should be trimmed in a restrained yet still relaxed manner. This is not to be a great house, but it is to be their house, in whatever manner that shall be.

Helmsley is a sleepy village, eerily quiet after a lifetime of servants crawling about the big house. It would be idyllic for retirement, but for a guesthouse? Despite the charming rooms upstairs, the filtered light from the mature trees that leaves the house still bathed enough in decent light, the cozy front room, she wonders.

His back is still turned away from her, and she runs her critical eye over the stove. It's getting on, but is capable enough for a cook.

And she tries to ignore him turning towards her as she appraises the floor, the way his shadow creeps across the room towards her, the way his frame is never far from hers in these empty spaces. They fill them with each other's presence—unknowingly, inevitably. They fill them with visions of practicality mingling with dreams that can't be chased away. These are their hopeless dreams, and a growing sense of foreboding becomes more difficult to hide when she hears the confidence in his voice.

He will talk of patrons now, _their_ patrons, their hedges, their kitchen. And before the moment to come, nothing will compare to the way he confidently talks of a future outside the walls that bind them, the walls that brought them together in service. This thing, this house is not a replacement for that life, or is it?

In some moments, she feels this potential partnership is but a means to an end—to help bring some order to the future he so fears. Every wall he inspects could bring him security. She doesn't begrudge him that, even as it brings an unfamiliar pang of envy, of dread. But these walls are what will surely divide them should this foray into property ownership become something real, not a figment, not a piece of paper filled with tidy assumptions on their pooled sums.

When he first fumbled about the possibility of investing in something together, his eyes had told her something, something he could not say in that moment, or so she thought. Perhaps this all was a means to another end—to bind them together as eternal partners, in life for each other, not service for countless others. Still, now, she shudders at the thought even while heap on upon heap of sums and renovations, of guests and tradesman, block out the possibility of something more romantic – the most attenuated of contingencies of all this talk of a joint venture.

His shadow grows now, the brush of his feet against the dusty floor rouses her then. She walks before him, down the long corridor connecting the other rooms downstairs before leaving this home with all the potential of being a center of warmth and light for anyone who would occupy it.

They hadn't lingered too long inside the cool interior. But the growing warmth of the afternoon is not lost on Mr. Carson as they stroll down the tree-lined lane towards the center of the village. But Mrs. Hughes is unaware of it, growing colder with every phrase in praise of the hidden gem they found amongst the trees.

Another house is for the perusing, and Mrs. Hughes wonders on this strange summer day. She does not curse God, does not flout him or doubt him. But she does question him, later that night as she piles another layer of bedclothes on top of her. She wonders if He knows how filled she is with the cold dread of a dream slowly dying.

And she prays to Him then, hopes that Mr. Carson will cast another critical eye over his notes from the day, find fault with every single one of the idyllic homes they crawled about. She prays that she will not have to be the messenger and the reason for their dream unravelling from its precious, tenuous place in their hearts. She is a woman of strength and substance, but the thought of ending this folly fills her with debilitating anguish.

Beneath her extra bedclothes, she sheds a tear at the loss of something they will never have, a dream imagined in this coldest of summers.


	9. Solitude

Setting: S5 - the evening after they accompanied Mrs. Patmore to see the house she would ultimately purchase.

A/N: This is meant to answer a question burning a hole in my notebook for the past few months: Given the myriad of expressions on PL's face during the property investment scene, combined with the "I thought you'd never ask," comment, was there something we didn't see just before the property investment scene that would allow Mrs. H to have that slight excitement on her face because he MIGHT be asking her to marry him? This is one way of laying the groundwork for that.

* * *

The day was long - first, their duties, second the trying Inspector Vyner, and then the outing itself - touring, taking tea, the bus, and walking. It was the accumulation of all these things that led Mrs. Hughes to rise from her chair and head up for the night. Her paperwork could keep.

Appearing at Mr. Carson's threshold closest to her sitting room, she was surprised to find him staring off into space in the dimly lit room. The wine ledger was abandoned under the long fingers of his right hand.

The muted stamp of her heel on the stone floor made him start, but only just.

How had she managed to sneak up on him, she wondered.

The signs of his preoccupation vanished as he gamely asked if she was off for the night.

And she was, or so she would have trudged up the stairs without a second thought. But his whole demeanor for most of the day had affected her in ways she could hardly fathom.

* * *

 _In all the wandering about that empty house, of supporting Mrs. Patmore in being discerning without being critical, she had held back her thoughts. It wasn't all that difficult a task given that her imagination did not see Mrs. Patmore's plans and observations in her mind's eye. She saw Mr. Carson. She saw his things, their things, everywhere. And these dreams belonged nowhere. But still._

 _By the time they entered the kitchen, she had managed to banish those thoughts behind a pleasant but morose-tinged demeanor. That is, until the unthinkable shattered all hopes of remaining tranquil, inside or out._

"I envy her."

 _And yet the Mrs. Patmore he envied was 'er, not her. He dropped the 'h' and revealed that the Yorkshireman in a grey suit, not the butler in formal livery, had thoughts of getting out, getting anywhere from the lives to which they both were so accustomed._

 _And everything she ever knew was tilted on its side yet again._

* * *

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?"

His question brought her back to the present. _Who's preoccupied now, lass_.

"Of course," she answered, brightly. And somehow he could feel the unease.

"Well, I won't keep you even though I had planned to offer sherry. It can wait."

Mrs. Hughes was drained, but she did not deny Mr. Carson a bit of sherry to cap off the day. Sleep would not come easily tonight despite her fatigue.

The decanter was on his table between the two doors. Without a word, she turned and proffered them both a wee nip.

She could hear him, attempting to rise from his desk. "Don't rise on my account, Mr. Carson. You can stay there."

But he already had, was standing tall, his hands waffling at his sides at her statement.

Confused, he remained there momentarily, unaware of her unconscious need for a physical barrier between them. But he was very aware of his precious need to rid them of all the things that kept them apart. And an idea had begun to form as to how to affect that on a permanent basis.

Her proffered chair was angled away from the desk and he acquiesced wordlessly, temporarily breaching the barrier by turning it to face his designated seat.

"Thank you," she managed without looking at him, which is why she missed him shifting to shut the door from which she entered.

Setting his glass down gingerly, she settled in to her own spot, trying to ignore the privacy they now secured.

A wordless toast and a measured swig was shared before his expectant glance in her direction gave way to curiosity.

He was careful with his words, his tone, as if they were sitting at the dining table trying to have a private conversation. "What did you think about Mrs. Patmore's house?"

"You know what I think. We were both there."

 _Why must she deflect, so?_ "Yes, but your comments were meant to support Mrs. Patmore, which may have hidden your true thoughts."

"I could say the same for you," she countered.

"Just so."

Another impasse, another expectant look. This time, she acquiesced.

"It's still a novelty, thinking of Mrs. Patmore being a property magnate. I am, very, very pleased for her, nevertheless."

"As am I," he admitted with a grimacing smile after taking another sip. Ruminating, his words threw another pebble across the pond. "She's mapping out her future."

 _Future_. Her widening eyes must have given her away.

"I know, I know. But how many times have you reminded me in the span of a day that things are changing? That our life here may be altered?"

She had to laugh at that before buying time with a contemplative sip.

 _Our life, he said_.

Although he didn't know it, Elsie Hughes was hardwired to consider the future. But it didn't always stem from or result in optimism or even idealism. At her core, she was and perhaps became a realist by necessity, capable of adapting because she had to, not because she wanted to.

She had learned this lesson early on, knowing her life was mapped out in but one manner - that her star was hitched to her sister. Becky was not her burden - but a rewarding challenge that taught her the value of compassion, of hope, of faith. But it did come at a price, as all things did.

Elsie Hughes had to operate with two lives in mind at all times. She kept one-eye trained on the horizon because things were changing, and it made her own life fraught with uncertainty. Each house that shuttered closed was a reminder that this way of life of theirs was ending. The march of time did nothing to provide stability in her continued support of her darling sister. And her constant reminders about the changing world - said as much to herself as much as to Mr. Carson - were meant to keep her grounded.

But her thoughts couldn't always stay rooted to reality. Their afternoon strolling through the deserted cottage brought to the surface her constant struggle when it came to wanting a different life, a life with him lived differently and for themselves.

In all her contemplation, she missed his searching eyes, wondering what she thought - not about the house. About what he'd confessed and his roundabout question.

At the time, she'd deflected his inquiry with a jest and a disarming smile that made his chest flutter and his eyes soften as he stood in the deserted kitchen. _She probably thought I was joking_.

But she must have known, _musn't she?_ , that his confession was just that - to a person he knew would hold this information in great confidence. And why confess it? _Surely she must wonder why._

Why didn't she ask? He had nearly given up on the idea as the sherry floated across his palate, once more.

"Were you serious," she asked. The very question could mean anything. But he knew.

They were circling whatever it was that happened in that dimly yet harshly lit house in that afternoon hour.

"I do... envy 'er."

And there it was again - though this Yorkshireman was dressed in his livery, impeccable. He was but a man, seated in his chair. And oh the longing it brought with just an 'er wafting through the air.

Outwardly, all she gave away was a slight tilt of her head. But it was just enough for him to know his statement registered as they stared each other down across the divide. He begged her, in his darkest recesses, with his smallest voice, to come out with it, to ask him.

"And your own retirement, Mr. Carson?"

And in all that longing, he had forgotten to think as he let out a breath of relief. There were no plans to say something other than the verboten _I wish you were there, I want you there. You are my future, if you'll be so kind to allow me to dream, to dare._ And he couldn't say that, not to mention start with it, _could I_?

His senses and defenses returned to him.

"You know what I once thought about that," he opened, still not directly commenting on the matter.

"Mmm," she hummed, and it stirred him. "Becoming a ghost or swearing off tea shops. Yes," she acknowledged with amusement even as she could not breathe normally. _He's actually going to do it-to speak plainly when pressed?_

"I can't be a ghost and enjoy a bit of solitude. I'd have to live a life of constant bother and schemes."

"I dare say, you wouldn't make a good O'Brien."

He chuckled at that and there hearts skipped a beat as they observed each other's mirth before silence reigned.

"Solitude," he admitted again, but without pretenses. "I could go for some solitude. As the way it stands, solitude outside my own room, if I'm lucky, is before dawn and well after dark."

"It is the life we lead," she sighed in observation, wondering what he thought of her invading that desired solitude by sitting in her chair in that very moment.

"Yes," he trailed off, looking latently uncomfortable as his thoughts meandered along similar lines. And somehow that single syllable was loaded - a prelude to unspoken thoughts.

She wondered on how he said it all with such warmth to his voice, with so much he clearly left unsaid. Or was it her mind playing tricks on her, his response to talk of their life led together? Was it too much to allow herself to acknowledge that her own thoughts on retirement might possibly influence his own?

Yes, perhaps it was far too much.

Indeed, she couldn't face it then, didn't want to face down the reality of it. She couldn't dwell on it in her favourite hour - the one they reserved for each other - _this_ solitude.

Diversionary tactics were her only defenses. "Is this your way of telling me you're going to run a tea shop, then?"

Sipping on his sherry, he pictured _her_ there, at the front, greeting people in a tea-shop in another village. Them living above it in solitude, and with a great deal of laughter… and cooks… and scrubbing maids… and cacophony. And it wouldn't do, _not for us_.

"No, I don't think a tea shop will do, Mrs. Hughes."

Her head tilted, regarding his contemplative unease with concern. "But you are thinking about it, honestly?"

Glancing at her before darting his eyes away, he admitted, "It doesn't worry me as much, that I will say. That's all I've really thought about it," _or all I'll be sharing with you at this point_.

Before she could press him, another admission sprung forth. "I guess that's what happens when you spend more time outside of the house."

But for her rapid blinking, she remained still as a storm raged inside. "You go to London every year," she noted, but she knew what he meant and neither elaborated much more beyond that for a time.

The War Memorial business was something he feared because things were changing. Society and their way of life were changing. And there he was, tradition personified, ushering it in as a layperson at the helm of something a landed gentry would have "organised" in years past.

She had found his increasing moments of askance as he stood at her threshold with his bowler at his side to be endearing - asking to run down to the village like a man who was asking if his wife needed him to run any errands. She had no fear about the outcome of this War Memorial business. She knew it might bring some worry to him, but it would also bring him confidence.

Little did she know it also brought him dreams that had transformed into goals that could never be fully satisfied while he worked alongside her as a servant to a great house and family. Little did she know that, wherever these goals took him, they would remain unfulfilled as long as she was not by his side as the only person he would serve during the time remaining in this life.

For all the uncertainty in her own life, he had remained the constant, despite the moments of surprise that brought them closer. She needed a constant, despite her attitude about change. And he was it - he brought her silent support about her waning years because she was sure he would be there with her.

But now it seemed she had assumed too much even while aiding in this emergence of the Yorkshireman who dropped his 'r's' and optimistically thought of the future.

She knew nothing of those walks to and from the village for every bit of the War Memorial planning, those tetchy moments where he wished she was there to guide and soothe as his meetings grew strained. He missed the order of the house less and less while he wanted her hand to hold on his strolls to and from the house more and more. And she was completely unaware, for now.

"At any rate," he continued before yet another sip. "A chance at solitude is plenty of years off, I should think."

And perhaps that's all it was, she thought, that he was becoming more comfortable with the future because he could survive the world outside their precious walls. But it was more than that, and she suspected it when he fiercely defended his position on keeping Archie Philpotts off the memorial. The past on which he dwelt recently reminded him that, as beneficiaries of millions of lives sacrificed, he was duty bound to live his life to the fullest. Was that merely it? Perhaps.

His assurance that all these thoughts were a mere glimpse into the distant future brought her a respite she didn't know she required. It was a mere thought, a trifle, _an idear._

And her playfulness soon returned. Perhaps she nearly lost her head in the moment as her brow arched, her sparkling eyes softly challenging.

"Don't mind my interrupting your solitude, do you?"

He had been looking away until she spoke. But his eyes pulled towards hers, unable to do anything else. And he couldn't bring himself to meet her jest. Instead, he regarded her plainly in a silent second before he looked down towards his desk with the ghost of a smile.

He let her jesting fall away, and it left her breathless - at the pleasure and the pain of it. _What can he mean?_

And it was gone - from the spoken conversation - but left lingering in her mind as they separately wandered off to sleep. And it would fester there until he uncomfortably revealed his idea to invest in a property a few days later.

But when he insisted it was merely business, intermixed with talk of when _we_ retired, she remained as discombobulated as she ever was. And she would look back to that evening talking of solitude. She would struggle to recall the momentary glimpse into his real thoughts - of the future, of her. And she would fight with herself over the next few days and months as to whether it actually happened.

A chance at solitude was fleeting for Elsie Hughes. That is, until that blessed Christmas Eve when everything fell into place.

* * *

Thank you all for reading. I've been slow to catch up on responding to reviews (and writing my own for the awesome stories out there). But, know that any comments you leave are truly appreciated.

P.S. Can you believe we only have one more Sunday until we have DOWNTON SUNDAY?! I'm flailing at the thought.


	10. Hiatus

Dear readers,

As some of you may have read on Tumblr yesterday (September 7th, 2015), I am considering taking a permanent writing hiatus.

While I do write for myself, it doesn't seem to be worth the time and effort to churn things out at the moment - drabbles, a longer story, or otherwise. Given the other things happening in my life currently, as well as the final series being upon us (and what I usually do for the fandom each week for that. If you don't know what that is and want to know, just PM me), posting things right now doesn't seem to be beneficial. We have quite a lot of people in the Chelsie fandom posting stories every day - straight canon, AU, Modern, etc. You won't miss me, I'm sure. That's not pandering or anything. That's just the law of numbers.

The question of whether to write and post anything at all has put a bit of a damper on my ability to appreciate the upcoming series, which is quite troublesome given all that goodness that lies ahead. It shouldn't be that way, but there it is.

At any rate, overall, it's been a pleasure writing and posting on FFN for the past 1.5 years. Thank you for reading and reviewing my writing - truly. As my fellow authors on this site fully appreciate, your readership means more than I can say. It's been a pleasure getting to know you all, through your reviews, PM's, and own writing. I hope you'll understand as I consider whether I will be writing Chelsie anymore.

Take care and God bless,

Mrpoohnminnie


	11. Happiest of Men

Well, I did say that if I temporarily emerged from my hiatus, it would be a for an episode reaction fic. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy!

Timing: S6ep3, around the time Lady Grantham enters/leaves Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.

Prompts (aka giant holes in canon): 1) Did Carson and Mrs. Hughes ever "meet" *wink wink* on the stairs ever before? 2) When did Carson learn that all was well with Mrs. Hughes and the bedroom/coat incident? 3) How did Carson feel about their living situation being unsettled, 4) etc., etc., etc.

* * *

Mr. Carson stares blankly at across his office towards the blackened doors of the silver pantry, unable to sit still but unwilling to go upstairs for a sleepless night - the last he will spend as a bachelor.

Despite his adamant defense of Mrs. Hughes to the despondent Mr. Barrow, Mr. Carson is quite low, quite low indeed that his betrothed should be so distressed on the eve of their wedding. _Theirs_ , he confirms as he steadies himself with his left hand splayed against his waistcoat. Not anyone else's.

But now she is distressed, and he is unaware of all the details, unable to simply be with her in the same room to do anything to ease her worries. At the very least, knowing she is next door brings him comfort and a reason to be at the ready should he be needed. Or, so he tells himself.

He's heard her door open and close several times this evening. None of those comings and goings bring him any solace despite thinking he'd heard her distinctive gait. And he still has no idea when he'll be able to head upstairs even if he wants to in that very moment.

But he does chance a smile then, absently.

* * *

" _They'll warn you so we don't meet on the stairs,"_ she informed him with a bit of glee that afternoon. He had been beside himself with nearly unencumbered anticipation. And the memories, for they had "met" on the stairs a few times before, had made him bashful, endearingly so, until they parted.

 _On the stairs..._

 _Their hands had met, intertwining as they trudged towards the attics. He would stop her at a landing, fascinated as he was by her hair in the moonlight - shining as bright as the embers of a setting sun._

 _His lips had met her temple, grazing her soft skin before a warm gale of his breath would slightly dislodge her locks. Their embrace would be brief, then. His whispered goodnight would send her goose-flesh rising with a shuddering start to her frame. But she would repay him this delightful disturbance with a kiss across his stubbled cheek._

 _Their lips had met the night before, worries of propriety and their charges left behind the doors to their respective wings. She was silent, for once. Her usual sigh accompanying their few, languid kisses was absent as they dared to savor each other chastely amongst the shadows._

 _Yes, a warning was needed to ensure they did not meet on the stairs on the eve of their wedding._

* * *

A knock arrests his wandering thoughts, finally. Perhaps he can finally head upstairs, alone.

The door along the same wall as the silver pantry opens, and Mrs. Patmore stares at him expectantly. He frowns as she signals for him to follow in a direction opposite to the stairs leading to attics. But this small, formidable woman has saved him time and again in the past few weeks. Dutifully, he sighs and follows.

Halfway down the corridor, she glances behind them before leaning in slightly, her voice a thinly-disguised whisper.

"It's fixed with her ladyship, Mr. Carson," she imparts as they walk along the long corridor, further away from any lingering members of their staff. It occurs to him vaguely that she could have been quite the scene-stealer on stage. "There's no need to worry about your Mrs. Hughes."

He is relieved, only slightly. He doesn't know what happened to generate the controversy nor resolve it. "Of course I worry, Mrs. Patmore," he mutters back to her, lessening his gait only slightly as they continue down the corridor.

"Well, I counted on that," she confesses before leading him into the laundry.

His brows furrow at the sight of their destination. "I know you're not going to like this one bit, Mr. Carson, but it's worth the risk."

"What risk," he wonders to no avail. The ruse is lost to him.

That is, until _she_ speaks.

"If you stay on that side of the carpet, Mr. Carson, we won't have seen each other before tomorrow."

He eyes the carpet with alarm, hung from a strong cord along a good portion of the room. His betrothed is standing right behind it, beckoning him with her voice - strong and soft.

"But, Mrs. Hugh-"

Mrs. Patmore is having quite enough of their shenanigans at this point. "Well, I'm off. I'll see you in the morning," she offers before shutting the door behind her.

Mr. Carson could only huff, a whirl of discombobulation as he gathered his thoughts. Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes were alone. It's not like they couldn't restrain themselves, they'd done so for more years than he would care to admit. But still - _most irregular_.

"She told you, then," Mrs. Hughes continues diplomatically.

He turns, finds her shadow cast along the far wall by the dim bulb near the entrance to the room.

Mrs. Hughes had found her voice back in her sitting room once she shook her head in wonder after Lady Grantham departed. The strength of it had ebbed and flowed these past few weeks. But the clarity he heard just now is not lost on Mr. Carson. It eases his worries subconsciously.

"She told me 'it's fixed,' and then lured me bait and hook into here."

Her voice is musical merriment. "Well, that was my doing, really. I guess that makes me your angler, now?"

They chuckle, and he marvels at her soprano to his bass.

And their aloneness is palpable now, despite the carpet. This is no phone call from London to Downton during the Season, where only their unattached voices are present. There is no mention of the weather, nor the absence of discussion for his need to return a day early under the pretext of tending to the heavy cases. No, this is more tantalizing, more torturous, for she is right there… yet so far away.

Venturing closer to the carpet, to the wall that displays her shadow, he can do little else but be drawn to her. "Yes, you've caught me and reeled me in, I'm afraid."

"Like that poor fish on your wall," she laments jokingly before inhaling and chewing her lip at the sound of his sure footsteps treading closer.

He is playfully defiant. "I'm quite proud of that victory."

"I'm quite proud of _our_ victory," she confesses before adding with some amount of trepidation, "at least we're nearly there, come tomorrow."

Though he doesn't see her actions, he knows her, knows her movements as he knows his own. And he longs to see her, to smooth his thumb across her chewed lip, an act never committed but constantly contemplated. _There will be time for that_.

But he is no closer to touching her as he was in her sitting room earlier that day, awash with nerves and swinging limbs. "Indeed, we are nearly there."

And she feels his unease, wants so desperately to see him now that this business with the dress is settled.

It is no small thing, her wedding clothes, the adornments that she will wear as she becomes Mrs. Carson. The frock and coat together is a product of the two, primary worlds that populate the Downton universe.

She always thought of Tom as the bridge between upstairs and below. But the efforts of each woman in this glorious household has made her wedding clobber a bridge, as well. And she is calmly alright with it, despite all the talk of "just us," as they mapped out their wedding plans.

Though she did not want to be married from the house, that doesn't mean she cannot appreciate the gift women above and below stairs gave to her in assembling her wedding clobber. She appreciates it all the more because of its symbolism, huffed a sigh in relief as the business was settled and Miss Baxter formulated a plan to transform the coat in time for tomorrow morning.

Still, there is no relief on the other side of the carpet, she can see from his swinging arms casting a moving shadow on the far wall. And she needs to have it so.

"Would you mind closing your eyes," she asks him, almost coquettishly.

The tone in her voice does something to him, something that he can't think about until tomorrow with any amount of freedom. "I don't think that is wise…," he starts.

"Now, that is not the kind of talk a woman wants to hear from her betrothed on the day before their wedding."

"Evening before," he offers, hoping it ameliorates things. And as put out at her comment, as alarmed at the prospect of flouting tradition if she ventured out from behind the carpet, he is relieved.

He had missed this, missed the strength in her voice, her repartee. Though he's learned she is astoundingly reserved, impossibly shy, vulnerable but never weak (and he loved that Elsie Hughes, adored every facet of her he was privileged to encounter), this kind of talk came from the part of Elsie Hughes that challenged him to love with a passion he could hardly fathom.

Relenting, he offers, "As long as you're careful with your eyes closed."

"Never you mind." Her chatelaine rustling against her skirts is music to his ears as she shifts, the hairs on his neck standing to attention as she nears closer.

She is in front of him now, her quieter, more intimate tones confirm for him.

He dips his head to address her, equally quiet. "Are you alright, truly?"

His limbs are twisting once more - she can feel them disturb the air around them despite her eyes closed tight . And she can only think of one thing that will calm him. Instinctively, she connects, stilling his movements as she skates her right hand up his forearm.

"I am," she says as if to console him. But it's not enough, not nearly the whole of it. _And what good does it do to hold things back_ , she asks herself with a squeeze of her hand clutching him.

She's never touched him in the way she longs to do now. But it is no matter, devoid of eyesight or otherwise. His shuddering breath as she softly rests her hand on the angled planes of his cheek is worth the risks of sightless exploration.

"I'm so happy," she confesses, his given name lingering unspoken on her lips.

They hardly say their formal names to each other in private, anymore. They do not fill the void with fillers. They impart their endearments with hands folded together, fond glances, a shy kiss here and there. But never, not even now, does a rolled _Charles_ tumble forth.

Instead, she sighs as his hand gently rests upon hers, his thumb caressing her palm.

It is nearly time for her patience to be rewarded. Only hours remain until she can utter his name when they are alone - truly alone - for the first time. It is a small price to pay to keep it locked behind her worried lip. It will be a bonus when she finally hears her own name on his lips, once more.

She'd nearly forgotten how it sounded in his Yorkshire tones, him calling for her across a long hallway upstairs as she managed the morning rounds, learning her trade for when she took over as housekeeper. But those memories don't include the ineffable tones he reserves for her now. He used to reserve those love-laced notes, husky around her professional title, for those quiet evenings of growing closer together, welcoming the end of another evening over sherry.

Now, he speaks warmly, almost indulgently to her even while their charges are with them over a meal in the Servant's Hall, craters to the softest-sounding resistance to holding their reception in the Great Hall in plain view of their employers. Their private world has grown and continues to grow.

And she wonders just what will be in store once they are married and alone at last.

But that's not a thought she should have alone with him in the laundry. At least, not on this day. When they return from their honeymoon, _well_ , she wonders with a bite to her lip to squelch a growing smile. Perhaps she's past some of her worries, at least until tomorrow.

Despite the firm conviction that they will attempt a full marriage, neither wished to seal their union with a kiss before Reverend Travis and all eyes watching them before the church. They had just begun developing this precious aspect of their growing intimacies. It remain just theirs, free to express their love when and how they pleased instead of ostentatiously embracing at the altar as if they were young lovers. _Perhaps we'll catch a moment before the reception_ , she wonders.

Besides, a few days before, she had finally heard herself, the small, lilting hums she made when he kissed her. And the thought of doing that before their dearest friends and their employers was quite enough to foreclose the notion and alert Reverend Travis of their decision. Their shared, shared especially for such a moment, was eased.

But they are happy, quite happy indeed.

And Elsie Hughes will sleep, barely, with that unshakable truth the last and first conscious thoughts she has before preparing for their wedding day.

* * *

Returning to his pantry to shutter it closed for the night, he revels in the lingering warmth of her hands have on his arm, his cheek. Those acts, for she had only just begun to initiate contact, meant as much as the direct confession of her happiness. His feelings had welled, warmth flooding his chest.

He had bent his head as an uncharacteristically shaking hand found purchase on her impossibly soft cheek. He closes his eyes briefly to relive their chaste kiss goodnight.

Yet, his feelings somber as he puts his foot on the first stair. The walk to the attic gnaws at him despite what it signals - that they will walk together, wherever that will be, from tomorrow until they part this earth. But their living arrangements are not quite settled, from what Lady Mary had imparted a few days before.

They have two options - converted rooms at Downton or a cottage on the grounds. After this business over the wedding reception, Lady Mary thought it best to redouble efforts to secure somewhere nearby but not in the house. It was her olive branch, although nothing was settled, not yet. It unnerves him, but he is trying to put it out of his mind.

What is certain is the fact that, after tomorrow, the bedroom he would soon enter would not be his, not anymore. Perhaps he'd need it on occasion when a house party overwhelmed their small cadre of staff. But it would never quite be his anymore. The bed, barely able to contain his own frame, would be quite unlike the one he would use tomorrow evening, he realized once more as he readied his luggage.

He had bared his thoughts, his love, his desire for Elsie Hughes ( _not directly, not yet_ , he reminded himself. Their wedding trip would be as much a time of discovery as a time of confession). However, the thought of actually acting upon, well _that_ inclination for a full marriage, was still daunting.

It informs his calculated moves as he sits upon the narrow bed, his hands splaying across the center of the bedclothes. Inwardly, he shakes himself, forcing him to wonder on the fact that his dreams, his most fervent prayers, are going to be answered tomorrow.

His head angles slightly, staring unceasingly on the small tray on the table across from his bed. Eyeing the small envelope that keeps the gold ring he had secured earlier in the week, he crosses to hold the small band in his large hands. His fingers warm the cool, fine weight of it as he rubs it between his fingers for untold minutes.

His reminder of an eternity shared with the dearest woman he's ever known has him confessing to noone, over and over, that he is "the happiest of men." He is, of course, though he wonders why he keeps muttering it as he readies himself for bed.

Switching off his bedside lamp, he hunts about the bed to find a comfortable position, pondering absentmindedly what side of the bed he would acquire after tomorrow.

Sighing in the the darkness, he confesses it once more with no small amount of amusement, "the happiest of men."

Closing his eyes, Charles Carson finds some shred of peace in the darkness for a mere moment.

That is, until the inevitable conclusion dawned.

"Oh my Lord, the speech…."

Encumbered by bedclothes, he scrambles about until his feet his the cold floor with a noticeable thud. All this business with the averted disaster put his mind off it. And now the words he had crafted that afternoon scattered like leaves in the wind.

"Happiest of men," he muttered urgently, over and over as the hours ticked by. He didn't quite sound it, that night or through the morning as he managed to misplace the ring on more occasions than he'd care to admit.

But as the doors opened to the church and he finally clapped eyes on her resplendent smile beneath the brim of her becoming hat, Charles Carson was, indeed, the happiest of men.

* * *

Thank you all for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts on these giant cracks in canon surrounding the eve/morning of their wedding day.

And thank you for your patience with my self-imposed hiatus, as well as this mini-break. It's been enormously helpful.

XOXO,

Mrpoohnminnie


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